


daffodil

by yeeharley



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Angst, Bisexual Peter Parker, Boys In Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gay Harley Keener, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Harley Keener is a Good Bro, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out, Minimal Angst Tho, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Photography, Protective Harley Keener, Spider-Man is still a thing though, Unreliable Narrator, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25580038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeeharley/pseuds/yeeharley
Summary: Peter calls him Daffodil Boy because his hair, curling down to the nape of his neck, shines golden in the sun like the flowers around his feet. He's never seen him up close, hasn't ever been able to summon up the courage to walk up to him and initiate a conversation.It's foolish, really, the way he feels for Daffodil Boy. But, for some weird reason, he can't seem to shake the lingering affection that comes with seeing him.It's not healthy- he knows that.It's not going to benefit him- he knows that.It's probably really creepy- he knows that.But Peter also knows that he might be in love with Daffodil Boy, and that's kind of enough to balance everything else out.(A last-minute assignment from Peter's moronic photography professor has him scrambling for inspiration with next to no time. He finds that inspiration in the campus Starbucks' barista, a boy with golden hair and a smile that could blind the sun.)
Relationships: Harley Keener & Abby Keener, Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones, Peter Parker & Ned Leeds
Comments: 15
Kudos: 153





	daffodil

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm back with a vengeance.  
> My Tumblr: [silver-bubbles](https://silver-bubbles.tumblr.com/)  
> A big thank-you to ironxprince on Tumblr for letting me bounce ideas off of her and to sunstvrks (also Tumblr) for reccing me music and being so enthusiastic about my dumb ideas,,,, I love you guys :)))

There is a field of daffodils in the middle of a small park a few miles away from Peter's apartment. He walks past it every day on his way to Columbia after getting off of the subway (gas prices were way too high for him to drive May's old Camry and Spider-Man couldn't be seen going to college or people would talk), be it rainy, cold, or humid, just to see a carpet of yellow petals spread out over green grass, wrapping around the legs of park benches and the gnarled roots of the trees.

Daffodils, Peter knows, are perennial flowers- they bloom only in the spring. They contain a poison called lycorine, the highest concentration of which is in the bulb, and cause painful symptoms that can last for up to three hours. Their scientific name is Narcissus, named after the Greek myth that he'd read about back in his eleventh grade Ancient Civilizations course at Midtown. 

He'd read about them after first walking past the field with May a year after Ben had died, searching up 'yellow flower big petal spring' and reading a _very_ long Wikipedia article about them in the wee hours of the morning. 

They symbolized new beginnings and the coming of spring, and that's why Peter thinks of his life with Ben as the Winter Era and his life after Ben as the Spring Era.

But the field of daffodils in that little park isn't the only reason he keeps his path rigid and repetitive; there is no single-edged sword in his life. No, he walks past that field because of the person sitting on one of the wooden benches with his sketchpad over his knee.

Peter calls him Daffodil Boy because his hair, curling down to the nape of his neck, shines golden in the sun like the flowers around his feet. He's never seen him up close, hasn't ever been able to summon up the courage to walk up to him and initiate a conversation.

It's foolish, really, the way he feels for Daffodil Boy. But, for some weird reason, he can't seem to shake the lingering affection that comes with seeing him.

It's not healthy- _he knows that._

It's not going to benefit him- _he knows that._

It's probably _really_ creepy- _he knows that_.

But Peter _also_ knows that he might be in love with Daffodil Boy, and that's _kind of_ enough to balance everything else out.

✿ ✿ ✿

A double major in photography and chemical engineering is, to put it simply, _hard_ to keep up within itself. Peter, of course, has it one step worse; Professor McEllion, a brilliant photographer and awful teacher, doesn't seem to understand how time works.

He's managed to be at least twenty minutes late to every class in the first semester. Peter does work for his other classes while he's waiting, so while it's a brilliant waste of his _photography_ time, he's willing to work with what he has.

This, however, is _not_ okay.

"Remember," Professor McEllion drones, pacing back and forth in front of his desk, "your life study assignments are due next week. You've had plenty of time to work on them so far, so if you've managed your work hours properly, you'll be able to have them finished with more than enough time to spare. I'll be expecting them on my desk by Thursday."

What the _hell_ is a life study assignment? When were they assigned? It's a _Tuesday,_ for God's sake, and he has _so many_ classes to keep up with.

The sound of pens scratching and computer keys clicking fills the air as the students around Peter jot down notes on perspective and the effects it has on the audience, but he can't even begin to think about zoom and angling with _this_ dark cloud hanging over his head.

He pulls a sticky note out of his backpack and writes down the assignment and due date in a messy scrawl, but his mind is very much elsewhere and very much panicking. This project has to do with life, right? So he's probably supposed to take pictures of everyday life.

Probably.

A crinkle of paper pulls him out of his mind and back into the present, drawing his attention to the folded scrap of notebook paper on his desk. The girl who sits in front of him- a scary photography major who goes by MJ and glares at everyone who looks at her the wrong way- winks at him and turns back around, already tapping away on her laptop.

Peter breathes a sigh of relief and unfolds the sheet. MJ's handwriting is far neater than his and, in perfectly-ordered bulletpoints, the details of the project unfold.

He'd had the right idea; McEllion wants them to find something involved in their lives, however small, and make it into something beautiful.

Peter lives in Queens with his aunt, works at an office supply store on the weekends, and has few friends (if any) His life, however busy, has become dull and meaningless with the exception of graduating. His only goal is to get out of debt. He barely even _enjoys_ anything anymore- all he has is Spider-Man at this point, and constantly fighting people gets exhausting, especially when his only reaction is hate and anger from news outlets and citizens alike. Sure, he could take pictures of food he likes, but how mundane is that? There are going to be at least four submissions of food; it's one of the most overdone concepts he knows of.

_Make something small into something beautiful._

_Beautiful._

_Beautiful._

And, all of a sudden, Peter knows what he has to do. After all, what in his life is more beautiful than the tan-skinned Apollo in the park?

What's more beautiful than Daffodil Boy?

✿ ✿ ✿

"You're going to _what?"_

" _Ned_!" Peter snaps, clapping his hand over his friend's mouth and glancing around furtively. He feels like he's trying to get away with some sort of crime- discussing international secrets, maybe, or dealing with one of those drug deals in Queens.

In reality, what he's trying to do is probably worse.

"Seriously, though," Ned murmurs, peeling Peter's hand away from his mouth. "That's kind of weird, dude."

"No, it _isn't."_ It totally is. "I'm just going to ask him if he wants to take some pictures. It's not like it'd _hurt_ him or anything, right?"

Rolling his eyes, Ned takes another sip of his coffee and taps something out on his computer. "Peter, no offense, but you aren't subtle at all. There's no way this guy won't notice your massive crush."

"I don't have a crush on him."

"You're an awful liar, too."

It's probably stupid how defensive Peter's getting over Daffodil Boy, but he can't really help it. This picture assignment is worth over a quarter of the semester's grade, and if he fails it, he has no chance of passing. No, it has to stand out from the rest of the class's projects, and the only thing he can think about that would make that kind of impression on McEllion is the boy in the park.

"Couldn't you just take a bunch of pictures of-" Ned lowers his voice, leaning over the table to whisper in Peter's ear, "your _hobby?_ That'd be pretty cool, right? He'd have to notice you if you submitted pictures of _him._ "

Now it's Peter's turn to roll his eyes. He gently pushes Ned back over to his side of the table and shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. One of his hands moves of its own accord, scribbling out caricatures of Spider-Man and Iron Man on the cover of his favorite blue notebook.

"You _honestly_ think anyone would believe that _I_ could get close to him? _Ned_ , you're _so_ smart, but that's gotta be the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

" _Hey!_ "

"I'm serious, man, I can't do anything that relates to him or I'll get caught." Four o'clock coffee is hot and strong against his tongue, and he winces as he gulps down another scalding sip. "It has to be something else. The guy in the park is my best choice if I can convince him to do the project with me."

"And _how_ are you going to convince him? You, Peter Parker, are a starving college student. Are you going to pay him? I don't think so."

Ned has a point. Peter can't afford to pay Daffodil Boy for pictures in _money,_ per se, and who's to say he'll be fine with being some crazy college student's second semester project? Peter could always promise to reimburse him when he starts actively earning money again, but he has no idea how long _that'll_ be. What other types of currency are there? Coffee? Food? Puns?

No.

"Maybe he'll just do it out of the goodness of his heart?"

_God, Parker, that's the stupidest thing you've ever said._

Ned, ever the supportive friend, shoots Peter a pitying look before going back to his notes and his coffee. Peter looks back down to his sticky note, finishes some of the web detailing on Spider-Man's shoulder, and chugs the rest of his burning coffee without a second thought.

He should probably be working on his essay about the difference between biochemicals and pharmaceuticals, but his mind is somewhere else and, somehow, he knows that he wouldn't actually get anything finished (anything of value, at least).

The coffee's already starting to wear off, though, and caffeinating himself to the point of physical pain sounds like a great thing to do right about now. Peter tosses his empty Starbucks cup in the nearest trashcan along with Ned's, a perfect two-for-two shot, before pushing his chair away from the table and heading back over to the counter.

Columbia's campus Starbucks is understaffed, to put it nicely; Peter doesn't think he's ever seen more than three people behind the counter. He could totally see himself working there if he didn't have so much schoolwork. It almost sounds like a fun way to pass time, and he's sure he could meet people much more easily that way. 

God knows he could use some more friends.

At the moment, there are two people working, and they both look like they're about to fall asleep. One, an older girl with bright blue hair and a severe undercut, keeps pulling her phone out of her pocket and checking the clock; she doesn't even seem to notice that he's waiting. 

The second has his back turned to Peter. He's tall- probably over half a foot taller than Peter, who isn't too short himself- and sturdily built, with muscles that could probably rival his own. Something about him is distinctly familiar, but he can't seem to pinpoint why; maybe they share a class or two? Most of Peter's lectures are spent completely zoned out, so it's completely possible for him to have slipped his notice.

Then it hits him- the barista has a voluminous head of blond curls tucked under his uniform hat, curls that Peter's seen nearly every day since he's started at Columbia. Face flushed, heart skipping beats, he subconsciously leans against the counter for support and takes a deep breath.

Daffodil Boy works at the _campus Starbucks,_ and Peter is standing _right behind him._

As if he senses the nervous energy radiating off of the _absolute_ moron at the counter, Daffodil Boy shoves his phone into his pocket and turns to lean against his own side of the counter. Peter, already struggling to breath, nearly faints like a damsel in distress, because this boy- _this boy has to be the most attractive human being he's ever seen in his life._

A smattering of freckles is scattered across his tan face like constellations. Daffodil Boy's eyes are as blue as the ocean, clear and sparkling and so damn bright that Peter knows he's never going to forget them. And his smile?

His smile is _blinding._

_Dear God, he's gorgeous._

Daffodil Boy chuckles and leans back a little bit, and Peter _actually_ almost falls over.

"You're not so bad yourself, darlin'," he says in his _southern accent why does he have a southern accent since when are southern accents so hot???_

"I said that out loud," Peter says, cheeks hot and red. "I'm so sorry."

And, like an idiot, an _absolute_ idiot, he finally turns tail and runs back to the table. Ned almost falls out of his chair laughing- the traitor's been listening in on the entire thing and didn't even bother to step in- until Peter punches him not-so-gently in the shoulder and plants his ass back in his seat.

"You can go get your own damn coffee," he mutters before slamming his head back down on the table. He can't bear to look back up at the counter, where Daffodil Boy is most definitely judging him, and instead decides to wallow in his despair like all pining dumbasses should.

"Sure, dude," Ned says through his laughter. "I'll go get my own damn coffee."

Faintly, through his anguish, Peter can hear Ned talking to Daffodil Boy as he orders his coffee. There might even be an _apology_ for Peter's dumbassery somewhere in there; he can't decide whether he should be thankful or pissed. At least he won't have to apologize on his own.

Time to cut some losses.

He's going to have to find a different subject for his photography project within the week, that's for sure, because there's no way he's going to be able to convince Daffodil Boy to work with him after that clusterfuck of a conversation. He's not going to be able to come to this Starbucks, either, for fear of more embarrassment. Ned's going to be buying him coffee and laughing at him for years. Peter's route to school is going to have to change; he doesn't need a reminder of what is undoubtedly doing to go down as the worst day in Parker history.

That's a lot of losses.

Ned thuds back down in the seat across from him, still giggling like a toddler, and slams two coffee cups down on the table. He slides Peter's over and grins.

"I ordered something different for you this time. I think you'll like it."

"What the hell, Ned."

"Just look."

Peter tiredly picks up the cup- it's lighter than usual- and, carefully avoiding his friend's gaze, and takes a sip. Instead of the expected rush of hot liquid, a piece of what feels like paper bumps up against his upper lip.

"Ned, I swear to _God,_ I'm not in the mood-"

" _Look,_ my young padawan," Ned says wisely. He tips his own cup backward to hide his smile.

Sighing, Peter unscrews the lid, pulls the slip of paper out, unfolds it, and almost faints _again._

There, on what looks like a Starbucks napkin, is a _phone number_ written out in neat cursive and punctuated with a winky-face and a _name._

Harley Keener.

_Harley Keener._

Peter slowly turns around to stare at the counter, where Daffodil Boy- _Harley-_ is watching him. Those bright eyes meet Peter's for the second time that day and the bastard has the nerve to _wink_ and hold his hand up to his ear in a stereotypical 'call me' gesture.

_God_ , what has he gotten himself into?

✿ ✿ ✿

In the end, Peter does take the napkin, tucks it into his pocket and leaves the coffee shop with a small wave in Harley's direction. It sits on the shitty linoleum counter in his apartment for two days as he procrastinates the inevitable.

Does he really have a choice? He's got a photography project to do, and as those two days tick away, the realization that he has nothing to submit starts to set in. Tuesday fades to Wednesday fades to Thursday. One week left to finish a project that's worth more than any extra credit assignment he could possibly take on.

Even during patrol, he can't seem to focus in enough to stop any significant crimes. Harley Keener is very much at the front of his mind, and no matter how long Peter waits, he stays there.

It all boils down to this: Peter sitting at his kitchen counter with the napkin clenched between the fingers of his right hand and his phone in his left, still decked out in his suit. It had been a pretty easy night even though a mugger had managed to land a few good hits on his arms and chest with a pocket knife. The stinging from the antiseptic he'd used to clean the cuts won't seem to fade, and that nagging feeling that he should call is back in full force.

He hates that nagging feeling.

Peter sighs and, for lack of an excuse, dials Harley's number with padded, bloody fingers. He switches it to speaker and sets his phone on the counter for fear of dropping it.

A shuddering exhale forces its way out of his lungs.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

_"Hello?"_

And it's Harley, that southern accent shining through the shitty wifi connection. Peter catches his breath. He stares down at his phone, frozen, unable to speak.

_"Hello?"_ Harley says a second time. He's starting to sound annoyed, and it's a total possibility that he could hang up and Peter could lose his opportunity and he definitely can't do that.

"Hi," he says breathlessly. "Uh- hi."

_"Who is this?"_ Harley asks, no longer annoyed but definitely confused.

"I'm- you gave me your number at Starbucks a few days ago?" _Not a question, Parker._ "Peter. Parker. Hi."

There's a moment of silence before the other end is filled with breathy laughter. _"Hi, Peter. I was startin' to think you weren't gonna call."_

"I- uh- I'm sorry," Peter stammers, fingers shaking. "I was. Nervous? Nervous. Yep."

This has got to be one of the worst things that has ever happened to him, and that's really saying something.

_"No,_ _it's fine,"_ Harley says with another little laugh. _"I'm just glad you decided to call. We never formally met back at Starbucks."_

"Yeah. Sorry about that, too. I guess it was kind of my fault." Pause. "I messed that up pretty bad."

_"You really didn't."_ And Peter could listen to that voice all day. _"I'm glad your friend Ned picked up for you, though. Glad you actually got my number."_

"Me- me too," he says, finally allowing himself to laugh just a little bit. "About what I said? I'm sorry about that. I, uh, don't have much of a filter. Apparently."

Someone on the other side of the line swears, but it isn't Harley. _"Shit, sorry man. My little sister. And don't worry 'bout it, I don't have one either. It was pretty cute, anyways."_

Peter forgets how he's supposed to speak; he's sure all of the energy in his body has been diverted to making his face as hot and red as possible. He sits there at his counter, very still, for what seems like a small eternity, gaping at the phone. 

_"You okay?"_

It takes another few seconds to remember how to form sentences again before he's able to reply. "Yes. Very much okay. Thanks."

_"Good. I'd hate to have broken you that quickly."_

Southern accents have never been appealing to Peter. Boys have never been very appealing, either (romantically, at least). Harley is both a boy and has a Southern accent. Peter doesn't really know what he's supposed to do about that.

"Yeah, uh, same." _Same? Wow._ "Hey, so I was wondering if you'd be willing to work with me on a little project?"

_"Continue,"_ Harley says warmly, and just he sounds _so nice._ Peter bites the bullet.

"I'm a photography student at Columbia and, um, my professor decided to pull a last-minute assignment on us. I've only got a week to finish it and I thought maybe I could take some pictures of you? If you don't want to, it's fine, I just figured-"

_"Peter,"_ Harley says, and he's laughing again. He does a lot of that. Peter would like it very much if he didn't stop. _"I can hear you self-destructing from here. That sounds pretty cool, and I'm free this weekend, so yeah. I'd be happy to help you out."_

All of the nervous energy in his body deflates like a balloon as he sinks into his seat. Peter breathes out a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much. You're really saving my life here, man, thank you."

_"Don't worry about it. Does Saturday work for you?"_

Maybe Peter says 'yes' a little too quickly to be normal. Maybe he smiles a little too hard when Harley tells him he'll text him later to figure out the details. Maybe he squeals like a teenager once he's finally hung up. Maybe he dances around the apartment for ten minutes straight with a stupid grin on his face.

Maybe he calls Ned and gushes about beautiful Harley Keener for the next hour.

Nobody has to know.

✿ ✿ ✿

Friday night finds Peter on patrol, as usual, buzzing with energy after a day of classes and essay-writing. A dizzy euphoria's been hovering over him for the last twenty-four hours, since he'd hung up on Harley and their plan had started to fall into place (ten o'clock at the Starbucks, walk around, take some pictures). Even a long, heavy patrol can't seem to get him down; despite the many crimes he's stopped and the way exhaustion is starting to weigh heavy on his limbs, Peter's still jumping from building to building as happily as usual.

It's too early to head in, anyway.

Eleven passes to twelve, then to one in the morning. Peter stops three muggings, a car theft, and manages to bust up a drug deal before he's ready to go back to his apartment and get a few hours of sleep before he has to get up again. 

He turns for home with no injuries for the first time in a long time.

_Should've known it was too good to be true._

A scream stops him mid-swing as he crosses through lower Manhattan, piercing and shrill- probably a girl, and a young one at that. Peter executes a quick one-eighty, wind whooshing around his head, and heads in her general direction. There's a new urgency in his movements.

Early-morning crimes are never fun.

Another scream rings out through the quiet air. Peter adjusts his course, picking up speed until he's hurtling through the air and barrelling into a dark alley somewhere between Wooster and Green.

He's in Soho. Nice neighborhood, great shopping, definitely not his neighborhood. Well outside of his area. Not where he would expect to deal with night crimes, really.

The girl is easy to spot; between the sound of her crying and the lights from the nearest street, he could probably pick her out in a lineup. She's small, with a tearstained face and shaking hands. He can hear her rapid breathing from his spot at the mouth of the alley.

There's a man standing across from her, much bigger than Peter. The guy's built like a brick wall, and he's backed the girl up against one of them with a gun in his right hand. His left is empty, held between himself and his victim like the mouth of a snake, palm-up and expectant.

"Purse," he growls, gesturing toward the handbag she's clutching against her chest with his gun. 

The girl sobs again, flinching against the wall.

" _Purse."_ This time, the gun stays up.

Peter's blood chills. Snapshots flash through his mind, shutter-quick, of a time where there was nobody to help and the gun that stayed up fired a killing bullet.

Not again.

"Hey, sir?" He calls out, breaking an invisible tension in the air. "Sir, I'm going to ask you to put that gun down and step away from the lady. Nobody has to get hurt."

The man turns to face him. Peter takes a step back as the gun, now off of the girl, points straight at his forehead. He lifts his hands to his waist and puts them out like he's giving something away.

"Sir." _Damn that shivery voice._ "You can shoot me if you want. Please let the lady go."

"Last I checked," the mugger says, his voice raspy and low, "I'm the one holding the gun. That means I'm in charge."

"I'm _asking_ you to let her go. Please."

"And I'm _asking you_ to leave."

Peter takes a deep breath and shakes his head, pursing his lips beneath the mask. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

He hears the minute the man tightens his finger against the trigger and moves just a hair faster, shooting a thin stream of webbing at the muzzle of the gun and yanking it to the side. The bullet buries itself in a nearby dumpster.

Peter has the mugger strung up against a nearby wall faster than he can blink. He's learned a lot over the past year or so as Spider-Man, but the lesson he's put the most stock in? That would definitely be that if a criminal has a gun and won't give it up, Priority One is always to incapacitate them before they can cause more trouble than they already have.

Some criminals want an out. They'll use Peter to do it, peacefully giving up and getting out of their current situations, however bad that might be. But if they don't give up? Those are the dangerous ones.

The girl, now openly sobbing, slides down the wall to sit with her knees pressed up against her chest. Her purse, so carefully guarded, falls to the pavement beside one of her shoes. The alley is quiet. Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance wails.

"Let's get you home," Peter mutters, slowly bending down to crouch in front of her. He snags her purse between thumb and forefinger, offering it out. 

She doesn't take it.

He sighs, falling back to sit across from her. This is the fallout, the realization, the setting-in. "You're okay. You're okay."

The girl looks up at him, blonde curls falling over her tearstained face. Her eyes are shockingly familiar, the bright blue of an ocean, but Peter can't seem to place where he's seen them before.

" 'M Abby," she says, sniffing. "Thanks."

Peter holds out a hand. She shakes it carefully, pulling herself up to her feet and helping him stand in turn. 

"Nice to meet you, Abby," he says, shaking out his sore muscles. "Ready to go home?"

She nods tearily. Rattles off an address and a set of short, choppy directions. Peter stands very, very still as Abby wraps her arms around his neck and boosts herself up.

"Can I put my arm around your waist? Just to make sure you don't fall."

"Yeah."

The night is quiet as Peter swings between buildings, Abby perched precariously on his hip. The stars above are hidden by a thick layer of cloud cover, leaving streetlights and the occasional car to light their way. She murmurs instructions to him every few minutes, just a simple 'left up here' or 'wrong way', and Peter takes them without hesitation.

He's ready to get home and sleep. Exhaustion weighs his limbs down in a way he's never really felt before. The adrenaline from the fight wears off, leaving him droopy and sluggish.

This foreign feeling isn't one that he likes.

Abby directs him to land in front of a row of brownstone buildings near a bakery and a dog-grooming shop. The minute his feet hit the ground, she jumps from his side and dashes toward the door of the nearest house. The sound of her feet pounding against the sidewalk bounce off of the buildings. His senses are ramping up.

Peter stands there, uncertain, just outside of the bubble of golden light cast by the nearest porch light. Abby slams her fist against the door of the brownstone one, two, three times, fidgeting nervously. The toes of her combat boots scuff against the welcome mat.

"Are you going to be okay?" Peter asks quietly. His voice cracks in the silence.

Abby turns quickly, shock written on her face as if she'd forgotten he was there.

Maybe she had.

"Come up here!" There's a note of happiness in her voice this time. "I wanna thank you!"

He takes a quick step back, holding up his hands. "No, you don't have to do that," Peter protests. "I was just-"

"Come _on!_ " She insists. "Come on up!"

Abby knocks again, watching Peter expectantly, and _there's no way he could pass that up_. He climbs the stairs slowly and stands a respectful distance away from her, fidgeting nervously with his gloves.

The door opens with a crack. Before he can blink, there's a blur of blue and gold darting out onto the porch and gripping Abby by the shoulders. Peter can't make out anything except for matching curls and a Columbia sweatshirt, and he backs up another step, scrutinizing a fallen leaf between his feet.

They stay there, the two- what, siblings? they look like siblings- interlocked in a tight hug and Peter standing awkwardly off to the side, trying not to bother them, for what seems like forever. The second sibling, several inches taller than both Peter and Abby, keeps swearing in a painfully familiar voice. 

They tear apart slowly like it hurts to let go, before turning to Peter. His breath stops in his throat as the realization sets in.

_That's_ where he recognized Abby's eyes from.

Harley Keener, in all of his golden glory, stares down at Peter like he's seen an angel. Before he can say anything, the taller boy closes the distance between them and wraps him up in a tight hug, arms clasped around his back. Peter, shocked, stands _very_ still for a moment before hesitantly placing his hands on Harley's lower back and leaning his face into his shoulder.

He smells like a mixture of cinnamon and machine grease. Peter takes a deep breath, relaxing just a _little_ bit more, before Harley's pulling away.

It takes all of his self-restraint not to chase him.

"Thank you," Harley says, voice raw and tired. "Thank you so much, man."

"It- it really isn't a problem." He clasps his hands in front of his stomach, biting his lip beneath the mask. "There's no need to thank me."

"No, really. Thank you for bringing my sister home."

Peter nods slowly before pulling his mask up to his nose and smiling hesitantly. "It was my honor. Stay safe, Abby. Harley."

And, before they can react, he shoots off into the dark with a buzzing feeling in his stomach and a stupid grin on his lips.

Harley watches Spider-Man go from his spot on the porch, Abby tucked under his arm, and frowns.

"How did he know your name?" She asks, an identical frown on her face.

"I... I don't know, Abby."

As they go into the house, Abby first, Harley looks back over his shoulder. He's unable to shake the thought that he's heard that voice before, seen those lips.

Spider-Man is _unbearably_ familiar, and he can't seem to figure out how.

✿ ✿ ✿

Peter meets Harley at the Starbucks at ten o'clock sharp, just as he'd promised, and almost drops dead on the spot. Sure, he's seen Harley in his Starbucks uniform and in everyday clothes during the stalking portion of their relationship (God, he's glad Harley doesn't know about that). This shouldn't be as big a deal as he's making out to be, right? He looks casual. That's normal.

But there's something about the way Harley's dark wash jeans are offset by the bright white of his t-shirt and an honest-to-goodness _leather jacket_. Something about how his vans give him an extra inch of height, sending him towering above Peter in a way that _shouldn't be so hot_. Something about the shimmery highlights in his hair, the freckles on his cheeks, the way his eyes sparkle in the mid-morning sunlight.

Harley Keener is the most beautiful person Peter has _ever_ seen, that's for sure.

Suddenly, Peter feels the reality of his situation crashing down on him. He's got a _ginormous_ crush on this supermodel, this _star_ , and he doesn't have a chance. Him, with his ratty sneakers and his old jeans and his green flannel. 

Peter has never felt so absolutely plain. That's what he really is, when it boils down, right? He doesn't have bright eyes or shiny hair or a pretty smile. He's not tall or cool. He's not _Harley._

But the way Harley's looking down at him that makes him wonder if he's wrong. There's a certain softness in his eyes, in the curve of his lips, in the way he pulls Peter into a gentle one-armed hug before gesturing toward the table nearest the door. There's already a cup of coffee at each seat.

"You didn't have to buy me coffee!" Peter exclaims as they take their respective seats. Harley just laughs and takes a sip of his, grinning like the sweet dumbass he is.

Shaking his head, Peter takes a sip of his after putting his camera under his seat. "You remembered my order," he murmurs. "How?"

"I'm a barista, darlin'." Harley winks. "It's my job to remember drink orders."

He wilts for a second before Harley speaks again.

"And I thought you were cute, so."

Peter nearly spits his coffee out. "I'm _not_ cute," he protests, shaking his head wildly. "God, Harley, I'm not."

"Are you kidding?" Harley asks, wrinkling his nose. "You're pretty cute, man. No reason to deny it."

"I can't accept _lies."_

"I'm not asking you to accept lies, dumbass."

"You're lying to yourself, Keener."

"Keep telling yourself that, Parker."

Peter laughs, shakes his head. "Okay, okay. I get it."

_Don't get attached, he's probably straight._

"You're fine with working with me on this? I get that it's not really normal to ask someone you've just met to do things like _photography_ projects, so I'd understand if you don't actually want to."

"Are you kiddin'?" Harley chuckles. A corner of his lips tilts upwards, pulling his mouth into a smirk, and Peter has to look away because he has _such_ a huge crush and it's killing him. "Of course I want to, darlin'. It'll take my mind off of stuff, and besides, who wouldn't want to spend time with you?"

"What are you taking your mind off of?" Peter asks, pointedly ignoring the second half of Harley's statement.

Harley seems to sag against the table. All of a sudden, he looks to be ten years older than he is, all of the energy drained out of his body. Peter subconsciously reaches across the table and takes his hand, smiling gently. He strokes the back of one of his knuckles.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want," he says. "I'm sorry if I brought something up."

"Nah, it's okay." Heaving a sigh, Harley pushes his forgotten coffee away. "My little sister moved into the city earlier this year 'cause my momma's sick and can't really take care o' her anymore. We got into a fight last night and she left and didn't come home until-" his voice cracks. Peter opens his mouth to reassure him, to tell him that he doesn't need to explain himself, but Harley cuts him off. "-until really early this mornin'. Abby- that's her name- she'd gotten mugged."

"I'm so sorry, Harley," Peter says. Then, as an afterthought (even though he already knows the answer), "Is she okay?"

Harley laughs, but it's that kind of laugh people use when they're trying not to cry. "She's fine. Spider-Man got to her in time, but- Peter, it really scared me. I don' think I could stand losing her, too."

It's quiet in their little corner for a few minutes as both Peter and Harley sit in silence. A steady stream of customers make their way in and out, cycling through for their mid-morning snacks and caffeine. Peter rubs his thumb over the lines on Harley's palm, methodically following the same paths over and over and over again.

"I understand," he says softly, eyes glued to the table. "How it feels to lose people close to you, I mean. You're not alone."

"Yeah?" Harley prompts.

"Yeah. I've lived with my aunt since I was little. My- uh, my parents died when I was five? And my uncle died when I was fourteen."

Peter waits for the pity, for the 'I'm so sorry's and the 'that must've been so hard for you's, but Harley just nods sagely.

"May, my aunt? She's pretty much my mom. I'd be terrified if she got sick. I'm- I'm really sorry about your mother, Harley. I'd be happy to help you and Abby if you ever needed anything."

He looks up, then. Meets Harley's eyes. The other boy smiles again, but this time, it isn't a smirk. It looks genuine. 

He looks happy.

"Thank you, Peter. I'll be sure to take you up on that." Then, he pushes his chair away from the table and stands, holding out his other hand for Peter to grab. "Now, Mister Parker. You wanna go take some pictures?"

✿ ✿ ✿

They walk and talk for what seems like hours, learning more about each other than some people learn during years of friendship. Peter's nerves from the night before have all but disappeared, because talking to Harley feels like talking to May or Ned- maybe even easier. Conversation flows like water, back and forth between Peter and Harley until the former feels like he knows the latter inside and out.

His favorite color is red. He's twenty, and his birthday is April twenty-sixth, so he's about a year and a half Peter's senior. He'd transferred from Tenessee Tech University to Columbia two years ago, his mom had gotten sick about six months afterward, and Abby had moved quickly after that. He works at the Starbucks on weekdays and studies when there aren't many customers.

He wants to design and build sports cars.

Peter thinks that's pretty much the coolest thing he's ever heard and he _literally_ works with Iron Man. 

Harley asks the same generic questions as he'd answered, steers clear of sensitive subjects like Peter's uncle and parents. He answers as honestly as he can- blue, nineteen (August tenth), Columbia all the way. He works as an intern with a big technology conglomerate in the city. Wants to design protection for 'law enforcers'.

Harley thinks he could do better things with himself. Peter laughs quietly to himself when he says that, because he _really_ has no idea.

"So, this project," Harley says as they walk through a small farmer's market near Central Park. "it's for a photography class _at_ Columbia?"

"Yeah, I kind of wanted to do something creative and figured it would balance out all of the stressful stuff I've got going on?" Rolls his eyes. "I was kind of wrong about that, though, because my professor sucks."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. He assigned this project on _Tuesday_ and it's due on Thursday. I think? Yeah, Thursday."

"And the assignment is?"

Peter flushes then, his face the same color as the roses being sold at a nearby stall, because _oh._ He hasn't really told Harley what the _point_ of his life-study assignment is.

"Uh. Just supposed to take some nice pictures."

"I know that's not it, Peter," he laughs. "Come on. Do you think I'm dumb or something?"

"No, no! I don't think you're dumb, Harley, not at all. You're probably one of the least dumb people I-"

" _Peter,_ I'm just _kidding!_ "

Peter stops short, caught up by the expression of pure joy on Harley's face. He's standing in front of a cart selling bouquets of black-eyed susans and daisies, and the way he throws his head back and the midday sun shines on his face is just so perfect that Peter has no choice but to pull out his camera.

He snaps a few pictures before Harley notices and, when he does, peeks out from behind his camera with a huge smile on his face.

"Peter!" Harley chides, but he's giggling too much to actually make Peter feel any sort of chagrin.

"You wanna see?"

"Hell yeah."

He holds out the camera. Harley takes it and looks at the pictures, and as he does, a look of wonder settles over his face. Peter watches as his eyes wander over his face caught in mid-laugh.

That buzzing feeling in his stomach is back.

"How'd you do that?" Harley asks. He hands the camera back.

"Do what?"

"Make me look..."

"Hm?"

"I dunno, Peter, good? Did you do somethin' that made me look good?"

Peter gives a startled laugh. "I didn't do anything, Harley. That's just how you look. All the time."

"That is _not_ true. I don't look like _that._ You edited it."

"I didn't have the time to do that! You saw me _taking_ it!"

Harley rolls his eyes and stretches an arm out, slinging it around Peter's shoulder. Peter lets him, even deigns to step closer and let the older boy pull him against his side.

He likes it there.

"The project is about finding beauty in everything, Harley. I don't even have to _look_ to find it in you, so I'm probably getting off easy," Peter reaches up and laces his fingers through those draped over his shoulder, and to his great relief, Harley squeezes back.

"And you picked me?"

"You're beautiful," he says plainly. 

(They take pictures in the park for hours, and every time, Peter feels his breath leave his lungs.)

✿ ✿ ✿

Harley manages to work himself into Peter's daily life within the next week or so. Even once the assignment is finished and turned in, they keep meeting and taking pictures.

Peter doesn't know what he's going to do with them, but he loves looking at them after hard patrols or when he's just having a bad day. Harley's smiles are always enough to make him feel okay.

Starbucks becomes a regularity, too. Harley has mostly afternoon classes, and Peter's are always early in the morning, so when he breezes his way through the door with dark circles and exhaustion written on his face, Harley is always there with his order and a hug ready.

Peter's crush grows like a mushroom on a humid day.

✿ ✿ ✿

There is something _seriously_ wrong with people who try to bring dangerous weaponry into densely-populated neighborhoods just for the sake of causing mayhem and making money.

Peter had been able to track down the smuggling ring responsible- a large group of wealthy men who'd been paying their workers to transport guns and knockoff Stark weapons into East Harlem. They'd been distributing them to the citizens and had succeeded in creating what amounted to a small mob scene, taking control of the residential areas.

The people who lived there were living in fear. Their everyday lives had been disrupted to a breaking point; they didn't go out after dark, didn't talk to people who could get them in trouble, and barely left their homes for fear of being shot.

Peter had expected someone else to figure out what was going and step in, someone more _professional._ Maybe Tony, or Daredevil, or even one of the two Hawkeyes (the short one scared him, so he didn't know her very well; Clint was just an asshole).

But nobody seemed to notice but him.

So, even though East Harlem was _far_ out of Queens- and, by extent, Peter's jurisdiction- he found himself on the roof of a dark warehouse at three in the morning, listening as small groups of people moved around. The sound of metal clanking against metal assaulted his senses.

There were a lot of guns, a lot of men, and only one Spider-Man.

Peter crouches on the edge of the roof, leaning over _just_ enough to be able to see into the alley below. There's an eighteen-wheeler parked there, and about thirty people loading the back of it with large wooden crates.

Each of those crates, Peter knows, is filled to the brim with guns and ammunition. There's enough to take hundreds, maybe _thousands_ of lives, and as much as he would've liked to stay uninvolved?

This is his city. These are his people. And he's not about to leave them defenseless. 

Another wave of men in dark jackets and hats files out of the building, each carrying a crate and stacking it in the back of the truck. At this point, it's almost full, and Peter knows what that means: his window of opportunity is closing fast.

If he's going to do anything, he has to do it soon.

Carefully staying out of the light, he scales the side of the building, avoiding windows as well as he can. Nobody seems to notice him.

It's kind of stupid, how easy it is to sneak around even when he's wearing the brightest primary colors ever to exist.

A pair of people stand at the head of the truck, conversing quietly among themselves. The taller of the two keeps gesturing toward the weapons in the back. Something about their movements is choppy- maybe even irritable.

Tensions are rising between these people, and if Peter knows anything, it's that tensions have to be released slowly or something is bound to blow. This alley? It's like a shaken two-liter bottle of coca-cola.

Peter gets to be the mentos, to his delight.

"Hey, guys!" He chirps, hopping off of the wall and bouncing off of a nearby streetlamp before landing _right_ in the middle of the crowd, waving excitedly. "Fancy seeing you here! Are you tired? I'm pretty tired."

"Oh my God." This comes from the man closest to him, who drops his crate and pulls a small handgun out of the waistband of his jeans. "Oh my _God._ "

"No, just me! You know, you really shouldn't keep your gun in your pants if the safety's not off."

"Oh my God."

"Yeah, I know. Can I have that, please? Did you have the safety on? Gunmetal goes beautifully with your eyes, man."

"Richardson!" The man at the front of the truck screams, fumbling his own gun out of his pocket. What is it with these guys and unsafe carrying techniques? "Shoot him already!"

The first guy, who Peter assumes is Richardson, presses his finger down on the trigger. He clearly doesn't know how to deal with stressful situations, though, because he moves slowly enough for Peter to duck quickly under the muzzle of his gun and disarm him. 

Richardson goes down easily, just a quick little pop to the jaw.

Coke, meet mentos.

The alley erupts into chaos. Every person who isn't Peter drops their crate and pulls a hidden gun out of _something_ , whether it be a boot, a pocket, or (for the few women there) a _bra_. That's probably the _scariest thing_ he's ever seen. Why would you keep a gun in your bra? He's never worn one, obviously, but he thinks that it would be _so uncomfortable._

Most of the workers aren't terribly difficult to disarm, really. Despite the fact that they're _transporting_ weaponry, they don't seem to be able to _use_ it very well. Sure, there are a few exceptions- a truck of a man who lands a punch or two and tries to clock Peter over the head with his pistol before he's webbed against a nearby dumpster, a woman with _extremely_ curly hair whose bullet cuts a furrow into the hair above his ear, a man with a scar on his temple who may or may not have broken a few of Peter's fingers- but, for the most part, it's child's play.

He really needs to learn to stop treating life-threatening situations like games.

It takes a maximum of ten, maybe twenty minutes for Peter to dispatch and disable the majority of his opponents. He does so with methodical ease, flying through the air like a dancer. It feels good.

It's been so long since he fought like this, and it brings some sort of thrill to his heart. Makes him feel more alive.

He's webbing up what he thinks is the last of the criminals when his spider-sense goes off stronger than he's ever felt it, warning him of something moving in his left peripheral field. 

Peter whirls around, webs at the ready, but for once he isn't fast enough.

_Bang._

_Bang._

_Bang._

Three gunshots, hauntingly familiar, shatter the air. He feels like he's been punched in the sternum. There's no air in his lungs, _God,_ he can't _breathe-_

Through his oxygen-deprived haze, as he falls to his knees, he can see what he recognizes as the second person who had been speaking at the front of the truck- a woman with bright blue eyes that look like Harley's and a cruel smirk on her lips that couldn't be further from his.

She lowers her gun, chuckles in the silence, and walks away.

Out of sight.

Peter's alone.

The pain kicks in only a moment later. It hits him with the force of a firetruck, burning him like matches, because he is _dying, dying, dying._

_Dying alone._

He wants Harley.

The majority of the pain radiates from his left shoulder and his right thigh. The strength keeping him from falling to the ground gives out all at once, and Peter barely catches himself on his elbow and keeps himself from faceplanting into the cement.

_I've been shot,_ he thinks. _I've been shot, and I'm going to die in an alley in Harlem. I'm going to die tonight._

_I don't want to die tonight._

But who can he call? There's nobody close enough to save him and he can't patch himself up on his own, no way. He's got nothing in his right-leg pocket but his phone, and there's no signal available to his cheap plan.

Tony Stark is _retired_ now, because he'd trusted Peter to take care of himself. Last he'd been heard of, he was up in his cabin with Pepper and Morgan, living up the post-almost-dying hype in his old age.

Peter takes care of New York on his own now, because Tony thinks he's ready.

How sad it'll be for him to realize he's wrong.

Brain fuzzy, Peter reaches into his pocket and fumbles around with broken fingers. His hand feels like it's being raked through broken glass, and he can barely get a good grip on his cracked phone case, but he manages to draw it out and unlocks it with shaking fingers.

Three of them are bent the wrong way. That can't be good.

Peter scrolls through his contacts as quickly as he can, trying to find someone who'll be able to help. May works late nights at the hospital and she's probably asleep right now, so there's no way she'll be able to come to get him. He doesn't want her to have to deal with this, either. She's been through enough.

Tony, obviously, is off the table. He's in upstate New York and can't get into an Iron Man suit without having a panic attack, not that his bad arm would even make it possible.

MJ and Ned are away on college tours.

Peter doesn't know Daredevil, Deadpool, or Jessica Jones well enough to call them in for help.

That leaves one person.

Peter's index finger hovers over Harley's icon for a hesitant moment. He's shaking violently, and the pain is beginning to numb as warm liquid spreads through his suit. He's going into shock, and if he goes into shock, he's got no chance of making it out of this. 

He presses _call._

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

_"Hello?"_

"Harley," Peter sobs, finally allowing his head to drop to the ground as he rips off his mask. He's so tired, and it would be so easy to just _pass out_ , but that would scare Harley and the last thing he wants to do is scare Harley. He loves Harley. So much. So, so much. 

_"Peter?!"_ Harley asks, and no, he sounds scared. It didn't work. Peter doesn't want Harley to be scared. That would be... that would be bad. Very bad. _"Peter, are you okay?"_

"Yeah, yeah." Giggles. "Fine. M'fine, H'rley. Fine, fine, fine."

_"Where are you?"_

He thinks for a minute. He's floating, that's where he is. Floating, floating away, with Harley. Harley's very pretty. Peter says so.

_"Peter, please tell me where you are."_

The older boy sounds close to tears now, and it's almost worse than when he was just scared.

"I'm... I'm in the sky, H'rley," Peter laughs. "Sky. But it's hard, too. Do you think the sky is hard? I think I'm going to fall through."

_"Talk to me, Peter. Tell me what you see,"_ Harley instructs. " _You've gotta tell me what you see so I can find you."_

"I want to see you. Not the sky. Not the stars. Daffodil Boy." Giggles again. Why is he laughing? He doesn't feel like laughing, he feels like crying. Like they've been beckoned, a few tears roll down his face.

_"You're not making any sense. Tell me where you are, Peter."_ There's a lot of desperation in Harley's voice. It's scary. Makes Peter feel like crying even harder. He doesn't like crying.

"You look pretty in yellow," Peter says quietly. "Walked past you a lot, Harls. Every... every day. I wanted to keep walking past you."

_"Peter, don't-"_

"I'm... 'm sorry that I can't. Cant keep walking. Leg hurts, Daffodil."

_"I know, I know."_ And now Harley's crying, too. _"Tell me where you are so I can fix it and we can walk with each other, Peter. Tell me where you are."_

Peter hums to himself, quietly, before rolling over onto his back and looking up at the stars. His phone falls onto the pavement, splashes right into a puddle of something red.

Oh, that's his blood. He should probably get that fixed.

"I can see..." he trails off, craning his head to look at a blurry green sign at the mouth of the alley. "I can see a sign, H'rley."

_"What does it say?"_

"It says... it says words. Says... numbers, too. E. A. S. T. E-a-s-t. East, four, five. Easty four-five ess tee."

_"East forty-fifth street? Peter, are you in East Harlem?"_ Harley asks, and Peter can hear things clanking around on the other side of the phone. Must be moving.

"Yep. Tha's it. Easty four-five ess tee." He takes a deep, rattling breath. "D'ffodil Boy, D'ff... Daff-oh-dil. 'r you gonna come get... get me?"

_"Yes,"_ Harley sobs. _"Yes, Peter, I'm comin'. You've gotta hold on, though, okay? Hold on for me. Please."_

"Nothin'- nothin' f'r me to hold onto," Peter murmurs, and the darkness ebbs into his vision, and the stars fade in the sky, and he's falling, falling, falling.

Falling into a field of yellow flowers and blue eyes.

✿ ✿ ✿

Harley's foot presses down on the breaks of Abby's beaten-up Camaro as he roars through the streets of East Harlem, praying that no police will see him and pull him over. He doesn't know what's going on, doesn't know _what happened to Peter,_ but he _does_ know that Peter isn't talking to him anymore and that something has to be wrong.

There's a bucket of first-aid supplies in the passenger seat. They sit there like a constant reminder of what Harley could lose if he doesn't move just a little bit faster, if he doesn't get there in time.

Peter had stopped answering at least ten minutes ago. Harley doesn't know what he's going to find, but he knows he's not going to like it.

East Forty-fifth street is about forty minutes away from Harley's place in Soho when he's driving at legal speeds. This isn't legal- the gas pedal is pressed almost to the floor of the car, and he's pushing it as hard as he can. Harley normally rids a motorcycle, so he could've been moving even faster.

Motorcycles are made for conscious, safe, not-dying people.

Peter doesn't check any of those boxes.

He takes the next turn so fast that his tires screech against the pavement and pulls onto Forty-Fifth. Barely slows down before flooring the brakes and almost runs into a streetlamp. The car hasn't even stopped when he's grabbing the bucket and throwing himself out the door, rushing down the street. Harley's heart feels like it's about to beat right out of his chest, because he _can't find Peter_ , can't find anything that signifies him even _being there._

Could he have misinterpreted Peter's instructions? Could he be at the wrong place? Could Peter already be dead?

The sound of harsh, tired breathing teas him out of his thoughts. Harley follows the sound as quickly as he can, breaking into a jog. The bucket thumps against his leg.

It's coming from the next alley on his left. He stops for a second, steeling himself against whatever could be coming, before switching on his phone light and marching straight into the darkness with no idea of what he's walking into.

It smells like blood.

Strands of webbing hang off of every surrounding surface, entangling armed men and women, the entirety of whom are unconscious. The blood isn't coming from any of them; its source is further back, near a large truck full of crates.

It looks like Spider-Man's been here. But why would Peter be around this place? Doesn't he live out in Queens? What business does a _biochem_ major have in an alley in _East Harlem?_

Unless...

"Oh, _God,"_ Harley whispers. He rounds the chassis of the truck and swears, almost vomiting onto the pavement, because he _gets it_. He understands everything- understands why _Peter Parker,_ the boy he loves with nearly all his heart, is hurt.

Because there, lying in a puddle of his own blood, is Harley's best friend.

Swearing again, Harley falls to his knees next to Peter and presses his fingers to the pulse point under his neck. He winces at the feeling of thick, warm blood soaking through his jeans, inspecting Peter's pale, drawn face for any sign of life, and prays for the first time since leaving Rose Hill.

_Ba-thump._

_Ba-thump._

_Ba-thump._

The heartbeat is weak, thready, but it's there. Harley breathes a sigh of relief before looking down at Peter's chest, his legs, looking for the source off the blood.

He tries to ignore the suit. The Spider-Man suit. Peter's Spider-Man, Peter saved Abby, Peter, Peter, _Peter-_

Peter's _dying._

Hands shaking, Harley scrambles for the first-aid bucket and pulls out a pair of scissors. He takes great care to avoid Peter's suit as he cuts it off, cursing himself for destroying a piece of art like this and then cursing _again_ when he pulls the tattered fabric away and finds two entry holes in his friend's shoulder and one in his thigh.

"How the _hell_ did you get shot, Parker?" He murmurs to himself before putting the scissors back and grabbing a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a pair of tweezers, and a large wad of gauze.

He's never taken a bullet out of somebody before. He imagines it's going to hurt.

Harley pours hydrogen peroxide over each wound, wincing when Peter moans in his sleep and breathing a sigh of relief when he doesn't wake. It takes a few minutes for him to fish the first bullet out of his thigh, gagging the entire way before pressing some of the gauze to the hole and moving onto the wounds in his shoulder. 

The minute Harley removes the third and final bullet, Peter jerks awake with a strangled gasp. Harley jumps as a fresh spurt of blood soaks that gauze, pressing down harder and eliciting a pained yell.

"I'm sorry!" He groans, pressing down harder before binding each gauze pad with a bandage. "Peter, I'm sorry. You're okay, you're okay, you're _okay-"_

_"Harley,"_ Peter whispers, stars in his teary eyes as he reaches up with broken fingers to touch Harley's face. His hand is cold against his cheek, but he presses his own up against Peter's in an attempt to be as comforting as possible.

" _Har-ley,"_ he says again, this time with a yawn. " _thank... thank you."_

"Don't thank me," Harley sobs, placing his other hand beneath Peter's head to stroke his chestnut curls. "You're okay. Thank _you."_

"I- I'm _tired, Harls._ "

"I know. I'll take you home."

Peter sighs again. A peaceful smile draws itself across his face before he shivers. There's a chill in the air, and Peter's defenseless.

"C'mon." Harley slips out of his jacket and spreads it across Peter's bare chest before gathering up everything in the alley that belongs to them, including Peter's destroyed suit and his bloody phone. He slips his elbow through the handle before gathering the younger boy up in his arms, head against shoulder, arm beneath knees, and starts back to Abby's still-running car.

"Let's go home."

✿ ✿ ✿

Bright sunlight filters through Peter's eyelids, turning them orange-red in that way only a sunrise can. He yawns, craning his neck back and stretching his muscles. There's a small twang of pain in his left shoulder, but other than that, he feels as good as new. Better, even. Surrounded by softness and something that smells familiar, safe.

Is that... cinnamon? Yeah, cinnamon, and something distinctly mechanical. It's a weird combination, but Peter likes it.

He yawns again, this time turning onto his right side and slowly opening his eyes. Where he expects to see the blue-gray of his bedroom walls, he instead sees something... blurry. Something that looks distinctly like a face.

As everything comes into focus, Peter realizes that he _definitely_ isn't in his own bedroom, and he _definitely_ isn't alone. Harley Keener, the blond-haired god himself, is fast asleep across from him. Harley Keener, who smells like cinnamon and machine grease, who he'd called after being _shot repeatedly,_ whose _bed_ Peter seems to be in.

Harley Keener, who is _not wearing a shirt._

Peter feels the moment his face turns the same shade as the sheets beneath him. He stays very still, barely breathing to avoid waking him up, but fate doesn't stand with the Parkers. The minute shifting he's done since waking up is enough to make Harley shift, too.

He opens his eyes, clearly drowsy, and yawns before smiling tiredly at Peter, who lets out a very undignified squeak.

"Uh." He clears his throat. "Hi."

"Oh, my God," Harley gasps. "Peter, I'm so sorry. I forgot your address and I couldn't make you sleep in my sister's car and _I know I should've slept on the couch but I had to make sure you were okay-"_

"Harley!" Peter giggles, rolling back onto his back and pulling the covers over his own chest (which is, thankfully, not bare. He's wearing Harley's Columbia sweatshirt, which is almost as bad, but still). "Calm down. I'm not mad."

"It's taking advantage-"

Peter cuts him off. "You saved my life, Harley. You deserve to sleep in your own bed."

"But-"

"Shh. Thank you."

Harley watches, wide-eyed, as he tests his shoulder before sitting up with a groan and inspecting the room. It's almost bare, with just the bed and a neat dresser sitting next to a window. There are pictures scattered around the walls, with Harley and Abby and a woman whom he assumes is their mother. Harley's main color scheme is red, which isn't terribly surprising. After all, he'd said that his favorite color was red.

"So you found out?" Peter asks after a moment of silence, turning back to Harley, who's watching him with a look of awe on his face. "About my hobby?"

"You mean..." Harley trails off before nodding. "Yeah. I did. You were really badly hurt."

"It happens." He shrugs. "I'm fine, thanks to you."

Harley rakes a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "Peter, you _really_ scared me last night. I thought you were dead by the time I got there, and when you stopped answering me... God."

"I'm okay," Peter says softly, placing his not-mangled hand on his friend's shoulder and trying to ignore the thrill that his warm skin gives him. It's pretty cold in Harley's room and, even with his jacket, he's trying not to shiver. "I'm okay, Harls."

Harley looks up into Peter's eyes, biting his lip, and gently brushes a hand over his curls. Peter does shiver then, subconsciously leaning into Harley's touch, and Harley can't ignore the way that makes him feel.

"I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm here."

They hold eye contact for what seems like forever, just drinking each other in, and something in Peter's warm gaze makes him feel like he's being invited to do exactly what he wants to do. 

_Can I?_ Harley mouths, and Peter nods.

That's all the invitation he needs. Harley moves quickly but gently, moving his hand to cup the back of Peter's neck and pulling him closer. The press of Peter's chapped lips against his own feels like flower petals, and Peter places a hand on each side of Harley's face, simultaneously pulling him forwards and sending an electric shock through the latter's stomach. Harley places his free hand on the small of Peter's back, fingers splayed out against his spine.

Peter's chin tilts back ever-so-slightly. He brushes a feather-light thumb against Harley's jaw.

Harley pulls back to look Peter in the eyes, smiling as hard as he possibly can.

"Is this okay?" He asks quietly, and Peter nods again.

"More than okay."

And this time, it's Peter who leans in, moving his good hand down to rest on Harley's shoulder. Harley hears the quiet, rhythmic breathing as he tilts his head back just a little bit further, allowing him to press gentle kisses against Peter's neck and eliciting a quiet laugh.

"I think I'm in love with you," Harley murmurs between kisses.

Peter tugs at a ringlet beside his ear. "This would be really awkward if you weren't."

The two boys fall into each other, enveloping themselves in a quiet bubble, a soft embrace that they could stay in until the end of time. This is _safe,_ this pocket of time.

This belongs to Peter Parker and Harley Keener.

To Peter Parker and his Daffodil Boy.


End file.
